(^LIBRARY     j 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO       \ 


A* 


xi 


ILLUSTR 
-ATED-BY 
OLIVER 

HERFORD 


Roberts  .BrotKer-s 


Copyright,  1893, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


A  U  rights  reserved. 


2Sutbersttg  ^irtss: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE.  U.S.  A 


To  WOLCOTT  BALESTIER 
THESE  VERSES  AND  PICTURES 


CONTENTS. 


ANON  ....................  !3 

YOUNG  LA  FOLIE     ...............  !j 

MRS.  GOLIGHTLY  ................  ij 

RIVALS    ...................  21 


A  NEW  WORLD    ............... 

FRIENDS  ...................  25 

ONE  OF  THE  FLOCK     .......     ,     ......  27 

A  KITTEN    ..................  29 

To  A  THOUGHT   .     .     ..............  33 

SHADOWS     ..................  37 

MY  DOG  ...................  40 

UNE  PARISIENNE      .....     ,     .........  ^ 

THE  REMEMBERED  LESSON  .....     ....... 


23 


POOR  LITTLE  Miss  FLIGHTY 


53 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

HER  DREAM 55 

BLIND-MAN'S-BUFF 58 

THOSE  STAIRS 61 

FROM  ^Esop 63 

FUZZIDORA 70 

LES  PAPILLOTTES 75 

VERE  Novo 78 

THE  LATTER  FANCY 79 

FRANGIPANI Si 

THE  PLUMS 85 

VERITAS 89 

THE  DANCING-MASTER'S  FAREWELL 92 

FROM  THE  GERMAN: 

I.  The  Court  Fool 94 

II.  The  Eagle  and  the  Rhinoceros 95 

A  WOOLLY  LAMB 96 

THE  WEATHER  OF  THE  WORLD 98 

FOR  THE  SAFETY  OF  THE  PUBLIC ,  ioc 

FRANKLIN  SQUARE 102 

THE  GIANT  AND  THE  BUTTERFLY 105 

To  MY  OLD  WATCH 108 


ALLEGRETTO 


.'J.-/- 


ANON. 

i HERE  dainty  lyrics  most  convene, 

In  song-book  and  anthology, 
'Neath  verses  of  deserts  not  mean 

His  simple  name  I  often  see; 
But  ne'er  in  text-book,  manual,  note, 

The  slightest  mention  of  this  bard, 
Whom  yet  with  credit  one  may  quote,— 
Poor  Mr.  Anon,  I  think  it  hard! 

For  he,  too,  sang  the  faithful  breast 

That  's  better  than  a  starry  eye ; 
Sang  love  and  springtime  with  the  best, 

And  cherry  lips  that  none  might  buy ; 
With  Sydney,  Suckling,  Herrick,  Vere, 

His  place  among  the  "  standards "  won, 
And  now  that  name  is  all  we  hear 

Of  all  he  was,  —  poor  Mr.  Anon  ! 

Where  did  he  live?     What  did  he  do 
But  launch  his  fancies  in  the  air  ? 

And  was  his  hair  worn  in  a  cue, 

Or  loose  in  love-locks,  brown  or  fair? 


No  doubt  he  had  dreams  of  his  own  — 
Light  may  the  earth  upon  them  lie ! 

Strange  that  so  little  should  be  known 
Of  one  who  died  —  When  did  he  die? 

What  may  his  petit  nom  have  been, 

Poor  All-forgotten,  long  ago  ? 
How  did  his  mother  call  him  in 

From  play  at  bed-time  ?    Might  one  know  ! 
What  did  his  love  put  after  "Dear" 

In  her  love-letter,  when  she  wrote  ? 
What  did  his  wife,  with  voice  severe, 

Say  when  she  found  the  blushing  note  ? 

Charles!    Edward!   William!    Peter!    Paul! 

Or  was  it  James  ?   or  was  it  John  ? 
The  fact  is,  no  one  knows  at  all  — 

Alack-a-day  !     Poor  Mr.  Anon ! 
Thus  I  beguile  mine  idleness 

While  staring  at  his  odd,  brief  name; 
I  think  of  writing  to  the  press 

On  this  case  of  neglected  fame. 


Lp    r 
IL  A  ©I 


OUNG  La  Folie  is  at  his  looking-glass, 
Arranging  his  blond  hair  in  lustrous  locks 
He  of  the  careless  shrug,  the  gay  "  Let  pass 

Perfumes  his  lips  from  a  rare  ointment  box, 


And  La  Sagesse,  his   Mentor,  seeing  him 
So  butterfly  as  never  once  before : 

"Wherefore  these  vanities,  this  gaudy  trim?"  -^ 
La  Folie  echoes  dreamily,  "Wherefore?" 


And   then,  with   soft  expense  of  breath, 

"  Marie ! " 
His   grave  friend's    eyes,  so  much   on 

parchment  bent 
The  budding  rose  they  mostly 

miss  to  see, 
.,  Widen  somewhat  at  this  development. 


"  But  she  is  far."  "  And  yet  so  fine  I  dress 

For  her,  —  yea,  just  because  there  is  Marie  !  " 

"  But  she  will  never  know,"  says  La  Sagesse 

"  And  you  speak  true,  —  alas !  "  says  La  Folie. 

"  And  so,"  sums  Wisdom,  "  so,  of  all  my  toil 

And  teaching,  thankless  youth,  the  end  is  this  ! " 

And  Folly,  worlds  of  pity  in  his  smile, 

"You  dear  old  muff,  you  don't  know  what  love  is !  " 


16 


MRS.   GOLIGHTLY. 

HE  time  is  come  to  speak,  I  think: 

For  on  the  square  I  met 

My  beauteous  widow,  fresh  and  pink, 
Her  black  gown  touched  at  every  brink 
With  tender  violet; 


And  at  her  throat  the  white  crepe  lisse 

Spoke  in  a  fluffy  bow 

Of  woe  that  should  perhaps  ne'er  cease  — 
(Peace  to  thy  shade,  Golightly,  peace !) 

Yet  mitigated  woe. 

In  her  soft  eye,  that  used  to  scan 
The  ground,  nor  seem  to  see, 
The  hazel  legend  sweetly  ran, 
"  I  could  not  wholly  hate  a  man 
For  quite  adoring  me." 


And  when  she  drew  her  'kerchief  fine, 

A  hint  of  heliotrope 
Its  snow  edged  with  an  inky  line 
Exhaled,  —  from  which  scent  you  divine 

Through  old  regrets  new  hope. 

And  then  her  step,  so  soft  and  slow 

She  scarcely  seemed  to  lift 
From  off  the  sward  her  widowed  toe,— 
One  year,  one  little  year  ago  !  — 
So  soft  yet,  yet  so  swift ; 

Then,  too,  her  blush,  her  side  glance  coy, 

Tell  me  in  easy  Greek 
(I  wonder  could  her  little  boy 
Prove  source  of  serious  annoy  ?) 

The  time  has  come  to  speak. 


18 


Y  only  loves  !     The  first  is  fair, 
One  of  those  blondes  who  best 

may  wear 
That  palest  rose  ; 
The   other  's   dark,  —  nay,    almost 

black, — 
Displays  of  hair  an  utter  lack, 

And  needs  no  clo'es: 
My  pipe,  the  latter;  and  the  first, 
Miss  Phyllida  de  Crickelhurst. 

I  love  them  both  —  do  not  I,  then! 
When  Phyllida  comes  on  the  scene, 

My  pulses  move 

From  dead-march  step  to  polka  pace; 
But  when  I  'm  left  just  face  to  face 

With  the  other  love, 
I  own  to  a  contentment  rare 
I  scarcely  feel  when  Phyll  is  there. 


21 


Yet  Phyllida  is — oh,  so  sweet! 
That  she  should  just  live  is  a  treat. 

Dear  wayward  dove, 
Her  one  fault  is,  perhaps,  her  wit, — 
She  plagues  me  oft  a  pretty  bit ! 

That  other  love 

Has  this  one  virtue  over  Phyll, 
A  mind  to  do  just  what  I  will. 

Suppose  I  have  a  fit  of  ';  blues," 
And  comfort  crave,  does  she  refuse? 

Or  laugh  at  me  ? 

She  's  always  there,  she  may  not  stir. 
If  Phyllida  were  more  like  her, 

What  life  might  be ! 
Or  if  it  were  the  other  way, 
And  she  were  more  like  Phyllida ! 

Still,  if  it  should  come  to  a  choice, 
And  I  could  not  but  give  my  voice 

As  to  which  love 

When  skies  are  dark  and  winds  blow  free 
Should  stay  to  bear  me  company 

Beside  my  stove, 

I  know  full  well  what  I  should  do, 
And  so  I  think  do  you  —  don't  you  ? 


xs  /v-  "*w  ^*iL'~f£'S- 

,#*%^^ 

•a^kl/HEN   I  grow^we^yrof/Wrsdom  and  old  Things, 

I  fly  to  a  new  world,  as  iVUhould  be. 
Made  by  me.** 


There  the  mountains  all  should  be  just  little  hills,^ 
The  rivers,  rills;  ^S^v^^^ 

And  the  sky  all -day  should  wear  that  baby  blue         * 
Of  when  ""day's  new. 

Prom  the  field  the  tender  green  should  never  pass 
Of  sprouting  grass ; 


\          «v  >-*.!  V'  / 

All  the-^oses  sKbuld  be  buds,   no  lily  white 


Tji'fi 


•   ^v 


open^  quite 


,^&^{^i4v 

j!pp/^V^ 

And  the  people  should  be  very  young,  none^mbre    •<!  /!  i    ' 
Than  three  or  four,  —, 


The  age  of  cupids ;   sweetly  they  should  play 
The  livelong  day 


In  the  youngling  grass,  where  all  the  ewes  and  rams 
Were  little  lambs; 

By  the  reedy  water-courses,  where  the  frogs  ^t 
k       sf  Were  polHwqgs, 

\A  f  (£>  _tz?r 

\)  fy  /And  the  reeds  themselves  were  —  oh,  no,  not  cat-tails? 
But  kitten-tails; 

banks  not     lady- slipper  grew(J 
baby -shoe;  v_-"~ 


i  •/  ^' 

,  -4  ii^/b^> 

i/O^^the 


p^,And  in  the  barnyards,  calves  could  barely  play, 
/>*r>?U5pfei3i,'ft   • 


new  were 


And  chicks  still  wore  the  yellow  of  their  eggs 
\       /-V"X          On  bills  and  legs. 


every  nest  at  eve  a  callow  brood 

Huddle  should;  ^-x 

And  when  the  crescent  brightened  in  the  dark, 
Puppies  bark. 


FRIENDS. 


E  'RE  friends  ;  what  makes  you  think 

we  're  not  ? 

We  get  along  first-rate. 
You  don't  go  'n  think  just  coz  we  've 

got 

Nose-bleeds  when  we  separate 
We  are  n't  best  friends,  are  n't  Tom 

and  I? 

Why,  don't  you  see,  Ma,  thaf  &  just 
'why  ! 

When  Tom  and  I  meet  after  school, 
"  '11  you  play  leap-frog?"  says  I. 
He   answers,  casual-like    and    cool, 
"  Girl's    game  !      Let  's    play    '  I 

spy.'  " 

Says  I,  "Pish!     Good  for  little  fry! 
Marbles?"  says  I.     Says  he,  "Not  I!" 

Says  he,  "  Play  jack-straws?  —  I  've  brought  mine." 

Says  I,  "  Run  home  ter  Poll, 
And  make  her  slick  yer  hair  down  fine, 

And  give  yer  yer  rag-doll  ; 
We  '11  drag  her  'long  in  yer  sweet  go-cart." 
Says  Tommy  promptly,  "  Ain't  you  smart  !  " 


Says  I,  "  '11  you  play  ball? — got  my  bat." 

'S  he,  "  Go  to  yer  grandmother  !  " 
'S  I,  "  Don't  you  speak  to  me  like  that ! " 

'S  he,  "What  if  I  should  pre  —  fer?" 
'S  I,  "You  best  mind"  — 'S  he,  -'Don't  you  fret!" 
'S  I,  "  '11  you  fight  me?"     'S  he,  "Jus'  you  bet!" 

And  then  we  fight.     And  when  we  Ve  done, 

Our  eyes  are  sometimes  black, 
And  all  our  buttons  mostly  gone,  — 

He  punches,  I  punch  back; 
And  when  we  're  tired  out,  we  drop; 
And  when  we  've  had  enough,  we  stop. 

But  I  like  Tommy,  he  likes  me ; 

There  isn't  another  chap 
Will  fight  so  long  or  readily  — 

Quick,  mother !   where  's  my  cap  ? 
That  whistle  's  Tom  —  where  was  it  laid  ? 
Ah,  good  !     He  shan't  think  I '///  afraid! 


26 


N  all  the  church  she  wore  the  prettiest  bonnet; 
It  had  a  rose,  a  gold-green  fly  upon  it, 

And  wondrously  became. 
All  through  the  hymns  her  voice  soared  o'er 

the  others; 

And  now  they  tell  me,  many  anxious  mothers, 
That  she  is  much  to  blame. 


Yes,  yes ;   no  doubt.     'T  is  surely  unbefitting 
To  make  all  eyes  refer  to  where  you  're  sitting 

Or  standing  up  at  praise. 

There  's  something  radically  wrong,  one  fancies, 
About  a  maid  the  congregation's  glances 
Follow  in  all  her  ways. 

Yes,  yes ;  no  doubt.     I  feel  it  is  my  duty 
To  wrestle  with  this  proud,  unbroken  beauty: 

But  here  's  the  rub,  —  ay,  here : 
When  I  would  speak  the  crushing  accusation,  — 
I  can't  account  for  't,  —  my  articulation 

Grows  anything  but  clear. 

27 


She  turns  on  me  her  brown  eyes,  sweet  and  laughing, 
And  so  my  sermon  ends  in  —  almost  chaffing. 

To  lecture  would  seem  vain 

When  radiant  smiles  her  teasing  teeth  reveal  all  — 
Indeed,  when  she  smiles  pleasantly,  I  feel  all  — 

Ah,  how  shall  I  explain ! 

Yet  right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  wrong;   and  surely 
(How  easy  't  were,  would  she  but  heed  demurely!) 

This  same  day  I  must  speak,  — 
Remonstrate  with  her  o'er  her  erring  courses. 
But  as  I  fear  the  foe's  confusing  forces 

Of  dimples  in  the  cheek, 

I  '11  seek  her  when  the  summer  light 

is  failing; 

We  '11  lean  together  o'er  the 
garden  railing, 

While  by  cool  breezes 

fanned 
The  dewy  roses  shake  their  heads 

and  shiver,  — 

And  in  the  perfumed  dusk  I 
will  deliver 

My  pastoral  reprimand. 


28 


A    KITTEN. 


KITTEN  small  sat  in  a  fluffy 

heap 

Regarding  a  young  man 
Whose  study    of  his  upper  lip 

was  deep ; 
Thus  her  reflections  ran . 

"'That  slim  young  man  who  stands  before 

the  glass 

In  his  white  sleeves,  and  thinks,— 
Now  o'er  his  face  bright  gleams  of  pleasure 

pass, 
Again  his  spirit  sinks. 

"  I  know  what  ails  him,  —  I,  the  little  cat 

Born  just  the  other  day,  — 
And  I  smile  at  him  from  his  best  silk  hat 

In  a  superior  way. 


29 


^     And  he  's  so  bis  a  hun 


dred  kittens  small 
Could  be  made  out 
him: 


"But  yet  I  think  he  will  have  suffered  much 

Ere  his  are  fierce  and  fine 
As  mine,  and  long  and  silken  to  the  touch,  — 

And  I  was  born  with  mine ! " 


32 


THOUGHT. 

HIS  great  man  in  his  gloomy  den 
Sat  planning  some  fine,  serious  thing, 

Involving  fates  of  myriad  men ; 
And  it  was  morning,  it  was  spring. 


The  high,  dim  window  stood  full  wide, 
With  no  thought  to  let  in  the  fair 

Warm  light,  the  good  smell  from  outside, 
But  just  a  useful  dose  of  air. 

Yet  light  from  the  forgotten  sky 

Came  in,  and  smells  of  roses,  too. 

And  presently  a  butterfly.  — 

A  yellow  one,  just  flecked  with  blue. 

33 


The  great  man's  quill  paused  in  the  air; 

He  looked  up  with  a  cold  gray  eye ; 
What  guest  intrusive  had  he  there? 

Dear  him !    a  yellow  butterfly. 

A  butterfly ;   yes,  such  things  were 

Outside,  he  knew, — out  of  his  line! 

Of  painted  wings,  still,  what  a  pair ! 
For  such  a  lady's  waist,  so  fine ! 

"  But  flee,  you  sunny  stranger,  flee  ! 

Parade  elsewhere  your  golden  grace; 
For  this  will  never  do  for  me," 

He  said,  and  drove  his  quill  apace. 

And,  as  the  bright  thing  would  not  go, 
The  poor  stern  great  man  by  and  by 

Took  one  large  volume  from  a  row 
And  placed  it  on  the  butterfly. 


My  meaning  is,  I  think,  quite  clear, 

You  little,  gentle,  tender  thing, 
Useless,  adorable,  fine,  dear, 

You  sweet,  sweet  thought  to  whom  I  sing ! 


34 


The  great  man  in  this  case  am  I, 

What  silk  so  e'er  my  steel  nerve  mask  : 

And  you  're  the  noxious  butterfly 

That  lures  my  cold  eyes  from  their  task. 

And,  for  you  are  so  dear,  so  bright, 

And,  for  we  love  you,  you  must  flee; 

If  you  preferred  to  stay,  you  might, 

If  that  were  not  so,  —  can't  you  see  ? 

But  pity  the  great  man  and  me, 

And   take   your  gay  gold  wings  else 
where  ; 

Leave  us  to  labor,  as  must  we, 

In  dens  unbutterflied  and  bare.  .&  ' 


For  if  you  stay,  you  may  be  caught 
And  slain  with  a  regretful  blow; 

Or,  poor  frail  sweetness,  you  may  not,  — 
And  that  is  worse  for  us,  you  know. 


35 


A    J 


SHADOWS. 

ISTRESS  CAROLINE  and  I, 

Carolus, 

When  June  glorifies  the  sky, 
Go  on  formal  walks  together, 
And  exhaustively  the  weather 
We  discuss. 

With  her  barriers  of  reserve 

(Chevaux-de-frise  !  ) 
And  disdain  in  every  curve 
Of  her  profile  sweet  and  cold, 
She  might  well  a  far  more  bold 

Rob  of  ease. 

So  I  turn  me  from  the  fair 

Cold-and-sweet, 
And  divert  my  dark  despair 
Watching  two  wise,  happy  shadows 
Stealing  softly  through  the  meadows 

At  our  feet. 


37 


When  I  drop  a  pace  behind 

(Shine,  sun,  shine  !) 
Who  dares  say  she  is  unkind  ? 
See  her  graceful  shadow  gliding, 
Friendly,  sociable,  confiding, 

Close  to  mine  ! 

In  truth,  her  deportment  's  stiff 

And  defiant; 

But  that  form  in  sweet  relief 
On  the  sunlit  grassy  ground, 
When  there  comes  a  little  mound,  — 

See,  how  pliant ! 

In  flesh  she  's  majestical 

More  than  wish, 

Goddess  — yea,  though  china  fall ! 
But  in  shadow  on  the  grass  there, 
Trembling,  flustered,  see  her  pass  there, 

Womanish. 

Now  her  hat-strings  brush  my  ear ; 

Now  one  tress 

Floats  so  near,  so  near,  so  near  — 
Now  the  gallant  shadow  there 
Is  going  to  kiss  that  shadow  hair, 

As  I  guess. 


No !     The  sun  in  sudden  rack 

Cools  his  flame ; 

And  she  says,  "  Let  us  go  back." 
So  we  saunter  home  together, 
Chatting  calmly  of  the  weather, 

As  we  came. 


39 


IS  face  is  such  as  cannot  fail 
To  please,  though  of  a  type  not  rare ; 

And  his  tail 

Has  such  an  element  of  grace 
It  bears  out  well  the  promise  fair 
Of   his  face. 


A  satin-sleek,  loose-fitting  skin; 

Five  sooty  mouches,  two  on  each  cheek, 

One  on  his  chin : 

Five  lines,  conveying  pained  surprise 
At  ways  of  men,  his  brow  do  streak 

Between  the  eyes. 

His  eyes,  then,  have  a  puzzled  way, 
As  though  a  wayworn  foreign  chap 

From  far  away 

Should  beg  in  language  no  one  knows 
A  bread-crust,  and  some  wag  mayhap 

Give  him  a  rose. 


40 


His  nose,  a  sensitive,  neat  pug, 
Relieves  with  humorous  upward  knack 

His  solemn  mug; 
One  curious  tooth  of  ivorie 
Projects  across  a  lip  as  black 

As  may  well  be. 

With  valued  points  so  well  endowed,  — 
So  broad  of  back,  so  slim  of  loin, 

Of  leg  so  bowed, 

Of  tail  so  as  no  straight-haired  girl 
But  would  expend  much  precious  coin 

For  its  curl, 

_He  is,  that  I,  his  mistress  dear, 
When  in  the  street  his  devious  ways 

I  strive  to  steer 
With  azure  riband  silken-fine, 
Feel  conscious  pride  write  on  my  face 
"  He  is  mine  !  " 


No  more  indulgent  friend  than  I  : 
I  feed  him  on  minced  chicken-breast 

And  custard-pie ; 
He  has  a  soft  bed  of  his  own, 
Yet  oft  prefers  for  his  night's/rest 

My  eider-down 


A  blanket  snug  against  the  cold 
He  wears;    and  all  his  steps  I  know 

From  bell  of  gold, 
Whether  his  leisure  he  employ 
Worrying  the  maid  above,  —  below, 

Worrying  the  boy. 

How  he  is  past  conception  sweet ! 
How,  when  a  foe  comes,  in  my  arms 

He  seeks  retreat ! 

With  what  zest  he  destroys  my  hats  ! 
How  he  barks  out-' his  wild  alarms 

When  I  say,  "  Cats  !  " 


You  ought  to  see  him  paw  my  dress, 
If  he  wants  anything,  the  pet ! 

Scrap  or  caress ; 
With  soft  calinerie  unmatched 
Rub  up  against  my  side  to  get 

His  sweet  head  scratched. 

You  ought  to  see  him  sit  and  beg, 
Or  give  young  Green  a  playful,  sly 

Nip  in  the  leg ; 

And  when  the  worm  turns  in  his  pain, 
Flee,  watch  his  chance,  and  presently 

Nip  him  again! 


I  Ve  heard  him  called  a  pampered  brute  : 
The  coward  charge  (preposterous  quite  !) 

I  could  refute 

With  utmost  ease,  if  so  I  chose ; 
But  that  the  world  is  full  of  spite 

Every  one  knows. 


43 


UNE    PARISIENNE. 

ITTENED  hands  thrust  in  his  pockets. 

Fur  cap  drawn  down  to  his  eyes. 
Mild  orbs  starting  from  their  sockets 
In  a  trance  of  pleased  surprise, — 


At  the  window  he  stands  rooted, 

Gazing  at  her  through  the  glass, 

Getting  cold  and  colder-footed 

As  the  unheeded  minutes  pass. 

44 


Is  not  she  a  dainty  vision ! 

All  one  faultless  baby-pink, 
Gold  hair  dressed  in  style  Parisian, 

Eyebrows  black  as  India  ink. 

Eyes  perhaps  a  little  starey, 

But  of  such  a  charming  blue ! 

Lips  most  like  a  double  cherry, 

Freshly  glossed  with  morning  dew  ! 

On  her  breast  a  red  rose  smoulders 
In  a  cloud  of  smoke-like  lace 

Veiling  just  the  perfect  shoulders 
One  would  argue  from  her  face. 

Now  she  fronts  us,  softly  eyeing 
The  young  bumpkin  gratified ; 

Then  —  one  fancies  she  is  sighing  — 
Turns  a  little  to  one  side. 

Then  in  one  long  glance  assembles 
All  she  may  not  care  to  say, 

Then,  her  steadfast  blue  gaze  trembles, 
Then,  her  face  is  turned  away! 

And  in  place  of  it — 'Oh,  fluffy 
Triumph  of  the  barber's  art! 

Curls  so  curly,  puffs  so  puffy, 

Each  must  cost  a  man  his  heart. 


45 


Sighs  her  simple  country  capture, 
And  remembers  he  must  go; 

When,  behold !  upon  his  rapture 

Dawns  the  soft  lost  profile,  slow. 

Now  one  eye  is  on  him  bearing, 

As  the  puffs  and  curls  grow  less ; 

Now  both  great  sweet  eyes  are  staring 
With  an  unchanged  tenderness. 

And  he  basks  in  it,  forgetting 

Why  he  came  to  town  today,  — 

But  one  eye  again  is  setting, 
Now  the  other  fades  away. 

Then  he  minds  him  of  his  duty, 
Tears  his  fettered  fancy  free, 

Walks  off,  murmuring,  "  Oh  Beauty  — 
What  a  searching  air  this  be ! " 


46 


LITTLE   maid   sat  on  a 
stone, 

Considering  her  woes. 
Her  gown  was  sky-blue  satin,  sown 

With  sprigs  of  briar-rose: 
A  ribboned  crook  lay  at  her  side  ; 

Buckles  were  on  her  shoes. 
She  sat  upon  this  stone  and  cried. 


Before  her  lay  green  meads ;   behind, 

A  little  tree  did  rise, 
Whose  April  tufts  put  one  in  mind 

Of  giant  butterflies,  — 
Fantastic  swarm,  green-winged,  absurd, 

There  fluttering,  leaf-wise ; 
Upon  this  tree  was  a  large  bird. 

The  poor  child,  sitting  there  alone, 

Made  herself  evil  cheer ; 
The  world  seemed  colder  than  the  stone ; 

A  frequent  little  tear 
Her  golden  lashes  overran. 

Now  she  looked  up :    quite  near 
There  stood  a  nice  old  gentleman. 

He  wore  a  neat  three-cornered  hat, 

A  plum-colored  waistcoat, 
Whose  fob  protruded  with  his  fat 

Gold  watch  :    below  his  throat 
A  handsome  fall  of  snuffy  lace ; 

But  worthiest  of  note 
Was  still  his  kind,  sagacious  face 


48 


He  turned  his  deep-lit,  knowing  eyes 

Upon  the  little  maid, 
Who  paused  a  moment  in  her  sighs. 

"What  ails  you,  dear?"  he  said. 
She  stared  up  where  he  smiled  at  her, 

Then  sniffed,  "  My  sheep  have  strayed  ; 
I  don't  know  where  to  find  'em,  sir." 

The  old  man  sat  down  by  her  crook, 

Upon  another  stone, 
Cheered  her,  and  comfortingly  took 

Her  small  hand  in  his  own. 
•"For  sheep  see  fit  to  stray,  you  cry? 

Just  leave  those  sheep  alone. 
Leave  'em  alone,"  he  said,  "  say  I ! 

"  Just  let  'em  stray  and  stray  and  stray ; 

They  '11  tire  of  wandering. 
You  lie  beneath  this  tree  all  day, 

Enjoy  yourself,  pipe,  sing ; 
They  '11  all  come  home  ere  night,  you  '11  see, 

As  meek  as  lambs,  and  bring 
Their  tails  just  where  they  ought  to  be." 


I  think  I  must  have  been  the  bird 

Above,  for  still  I  seem 
That  precious  lesson  to  have  heard 

From  Time's  lips,  in  a  dream; 
And  when  my  sheep  stray,  —  not  real  sheep 

With  wool,  as  you  may  deem, 
(I  can't  have  been  myself  Bo-Peep !) 

Not  woolly  sheep,  but  things,  I  mean, 
That  likewise  go  wrong,  roam,  — 

In  vain  regrets  I  waste  no  spleen, 
But  toss  off  care  as  foam: 

I  live  as  if  in  joyful  case, 

And  duly  they  come  home 

With  figurative  tails  in  place. 


VOW  it  is  no  virtue  in  some  folk 

To  not  buy  loves  of  bonnets;  but  in  me, 
That  so  love  bonnets,  this  last  season's  toqne 
Shows  ever)-  virtue  in  a  high  degree. 

Nobody  knows  how  things  they  have  in  shops 
Appeal  to  me,  —  things  that  I  can't  afford! 

soul  yearns ;    and  I  still  with  little  sops 
That  Cerberus,  awaiting  my  reward. 


But  I  sha'n't  be  rewarded,  you  will  see ; 

In  thrice-dyed  gowns  and  last  year's  hats 

grown  old 
I  '^  die  °f  some  unstylish  malady, 

And  be  translated  to  the  streets  of  gold 


53 


And  there  the  harp,  the  palm!     No  hats  at  all  — 
Haloes !     No  doubt  my  soul  is  not  so  shut 

To  good  but  I  too  feel  the  higher  call 

At  times,  and  hope  for  Paradise;    but  —  but — 

If,  for  example,  there  might  be  a  kind 

Of  ante-chamber  to  the  Heavenly  Hall, 

Where  I  might  stay  a  little,  and  there  find 

The  things  I  longed  for  on  this  earthly  ball! 

Know  for  a  moment  how  it  feels  to  own 

A  seal-skin  sacque,  real  pearls,  fans,  bangles,  rings, 
A  silver  coffee-set  that  's  not  a  loan, 

And  perfumes  and  silk  gowns,  and  all  such  things ! 

Then,  ushered  in  where  cherubim  sing  praise, 
I  'd  don  without  a  murmur  my  white  stole, 

And  be  an  angel  my  eternal  days  — 

Ah,  God  forgive  my  worldly  little  soul ! 


54 


|  Y  little  love,"  he  murmured  in  her 

ear, 

When  her  pas  seul  was  danced, 
And  she  came  tripping  'mid  an  echoing 

cheer 
Behind   the  scenes,   flushed,  smiling  and 

entranced, 
"  My   little   dove,    such    loveliness,   such 

charm, 
Such  grace,  a  very  tiger  might  disarm !  " 


And  afterward,  when  cosily  tucked  in 

She  lay  in  slumber  sweet, 
few  red  leaves  still  where  her  wreath  had  been, 

And  lead  in  both  her  tired  little  feet, 
There  came  to  her  upon  the  dawn's  first  gleam 
Such  a  fantastic  flattered  little  dream. 


She  thought  she  stood  in  a  vast  jungle  green, 

Where  Indian  winds  blew  balm; 
And  presently  a  tiger,  fierce  and  lean, 

Came  toward  her  from  a  screen  of  rustling  palm, 
A  tiger,  amber-eyed  and  grim  and  sleek, 
Who  had  n't  had  the  least  meal  for  a  we< 


/  VI  She  thought  she  fled  behind  a  thick  palm-bole,  ^A  N$%/ 
[    *\L          Possessed  with  abject  fear :  ^/'r^W     l/^- 

But  soon  recurred  unto  her  quaking  soul 


The  words  some  one  had  murmured  in  her  ear, 
And  straightway  she  advanced  with  easy  grace, 
And  smiled  right  in  the  tiger's  glowering  face. 

The  tiger,  taken  much  aback,  made  pause, 

And  eyed  with  glances  cold 
Her  slim  shape  in  its  skirts  of  pinky  gauze, 

Airy  and  crisp  and  spangled  o'er  with  gold ; 
He  eyed  her  downward  from  her  hair's  red  rose, 
Then  upward  from  her  satin-slippered  toes. 

Now  she  spread  out  her  round  white  arms  like  wings, 

And  rose  upon  the  tips 
Of  those  enchanting  satin-slippered  things, 

A  breathless  smile  upon  her  parted  lips ; 
She  moved  along  with  tiny  hurried  hops  — 
The  tiger  sat  square  down  and  licked  his  chops. 

Then,  with  the  languor  of  who  condescends, 

She  glided  where  he  sat, 
So  near  she  brushed  his  savage  whisker-ends, 

And  daintily  performed  an  entrechat j 
And  with  an  unconcern  that  made  him  stare 
Stood  five  full  minutes  one  foot  in  the  air. 

She  pursed  her  lips  in  her  most  winning  way, 

And  blew  him  a  light  kiss. 
The  brute  looked  as  a  tiger  who  should  say, 

"  Whoe'er  heard  of  so  rich  a  jest  as  this  !  " 
His  yellow  eyes  with  admiration  warmed.  — 
And  so,  the  dream  ran,  so  he  was  disarmed. 

57 


HE  farmer  had  five  buxom  girls, — 

Joan,  Betty,  Hester,  Peg,  and  Kate ; 
And  all  had  blushes,  dimples,  curls, 

Had  dewy  lips  and  noses  straight. 
And  four,  in  truth,  were  not  sedate, 
But  Kate  was  quiet  as  a  mouse,  — 

And  I  loved  Kate, 
And  I  dwelt  in  her  father's  house. 

And  when  at  evening  work  was  o'er, 

The  girls  and  we,  the  farmer  boys, 
Would  clear  the  great  worn  kitchen  floor 

For  games  and  dances,  rounds  and  noise ; 
And  when  none  knew  what  more  to  play, 

Each  pastime  having  served  enough, 
I  'd  shyly  say, 

"  Let 's  have  a  game  of  blind-man's-buff ! " 


Then,  while  all  minds  were  occupied 

With  searching  for  that  'kerchief  red 
Of  size  sufficient  to  be  tied 

About  the  boyish  bullet  head, 
Kate,  with  one  finger  on  her  lips, 

Her  long,  moist  eyes  on  mine  that  glowed, 
Would  stilly  slip 

From  out  the  busy,  laughing  crowd, 

And  spend  among  the  window-plants 

One  careless  minute  casually, 
Lifting  the  window-blind,  perchance, 

And  gazing  out,  as  if   to  see : 
Returning  whence,  she  held  between 
Slim  fingers  and  unconscious 
thumb 

A  trifle  green,  — 
A  sprig  of  rose-geranium. 


That,  when  the  game  began  at  last 

(She  'd  teased  it  till  her  fingers  smelt), 
With  ease  and  swiftness  she  'd  make  fast 

Between  her  panting  heart  and  belt; 
And  when  my  turn  came  to  be  blind, 

Fate  must  have  slyer  been  than  Fate, 
But  I  could  find 

My  little  rose-geranium  Kate. 

Oh,  happy  groping  in  the  dark 

Through  fifteen  thicknesses  of  red ! 
I  'd  stop  and  make  believe  to  hark, 

When  I  would  sniff  the  air  instead. 
And  at  my  sleeve  fair  Peg  would  pluck, 

And  Joan  into  my  arms  would  burst ; 
But  no,  I  'd  duck,  — 

She  must  smell  of  geranium  first! 

Oh,  pleasure  !  blindly  following 

That  fleeting  perfume,  haunting,  fine ! 
And  when  I  'd  caught  the  sweet,  scared  thing, 

Mine,  for  one  little  moment  mine, — 
Oh,  bliss  !  for  I  might  kiss  her  cheek, 

As  was  the  custom  at  that  date. 
She  's  not  so  meek 

As  she  was  then,  now ;   are  you,  Kate  ? 


60 


THOSE    STAIRS. 


|N  going  up  to  bed  last  night 

I  climbed  with  little  care, 
And  when  I  thought  I  'd  done  the 

night, 

There  still  was  one  more  stair ; 
'T  was  late,  the  lights  were  out,  and  so 
Most  grievously  I  stubbed  my  toe. 

And  as  I  lingered,  rubbing  hard, 

There  came  a  plaintive  noise 
Uplifted  from  the  lone  back  yard. 

Said  I,  "I  know  the  voice; 
It's  Tom.     Excluded  hath  he  been; 
Bad  night ;  I  '11  let  the  poor  beast  in." 

Descending  to  admit  the  cat 

At  the  dark  kitchen  door, 
I  thought  when   I  had  reached  the 

mat 

That  there  was  one  stair  more 
My  progress  the  dull  floor  did 

block,  - 
My  nervous  system  got  a  shock. 

61 


I  opened  to  the  doleful  crier, 
And,  climbing  back  to  bed, 

Would  you  believe  ?   strove  to  get  higher, 
When  I  had  reached  the  head  ; 

In  truth,  upon  the  topmost  stair 

I  stood  with  one  foot  in  the  air. 

Then  I  bethought  me,  "  Mrs.  B 

Won't  have  the  cat  in  nights ! " 
And  I  descended  speedily 

To  set  things  back  to  rights. 
And,  •'  Now  I  'm  safe," 

I  sweetly  thought: 
"This  step's  the  last  —  " 
but  it  was  not ! 


62 


FROM   ,ESOP. 
I 

SLY  puss  (literally  puss) 

Once  did  so  well  with  pensive  purr 
And  great  eyes  softly  sulphurous 

A  fond  wretch  fell  in  love  with  her. 

And  (this  was  years  and  years  ago), 
With  Pygmalionic  fancy  stirred, 
Prayed  that  she  might  be  changed  into 
A  woman;    and  his  prayer  was  heard. 


At  waving  of  some  magic  wand 

Her  snowy  whiskers  disappeared, 

Her  narrowing  lips  grew  pink  and  fond, 

Her  fine  ears  shrank,  her  temples  cleared ; 

Her  eyes  assumed  a  gentler  tint, 

Yet  kept  their  waxing-wan ing  ways; 

In  her  hushed  step  survived  a  hint 
Of  velvet-footed  feline  days. 

The  pensive  purr  she  still  retained, 

And  ofttimes  arched  her  graceful  throat 

As  if  to  sleek  her  tender-grained 
Skin,  as  of  old  her  furry  coat. 

She  made,  indeed,  in  her  new  plight, 

Curling  on  the  familiar  mat, 
As  sweet  a  pussy-woman  quite 

As  she  had  been  a  pussy-cat. 

The  man  praised  all  the  powers  above ; 

Nor  did  the  days  bring  as  they  flew 
The  least  abatement  in  his  love 

For  his  fastidious,  tender  Mu. 

Until  (ah,  so  it  still  hath  been : 

Your  pleasure  scarcely  well  begun, 

Some  little  part  of   speech  steps  in, 

If!  —  But!—  Until!  —  and  spoils  the  fun) 


64 


One  day  before  the  ingle  flame 

She  lay  in  a  luxurious  drowse; 

A  tiny  sound  of  scrambling  came ; 

The  husband  cried,  "  It  is  a  mouse ! " 

And  then  —  a  veil  we  will  drop  o'er 

The  wretched  man's  dismay  and  shame 

To  see  his  fair  one,  on  all  four, 

In  hot  pursuit  of   her  old  game. 


II. 

SLEEK  dog  met  a  wolf  once,  long  ago, 
So  shabby,  oh,  so  shabby !     His  rough  coat 
About  his  hollow  ribs  appeared  to  float, 
Rather  than  any  other  verb  I  know. 


And  he  was  weary,  soiled  with  dust  and  mire ; 
One  ear  was  patched,  the  other  ear  was  rent; 
And  in  his  eye  a  deep  discouragement 

Had  deadened  quite  its  ordinary  fire. 

His  glance  betrayed  the  sadness  and  the  doubt 
Of  one  who  has  to  look  far  in  the  past 
To  verify  how  long  since  he  dined  last, 

And  wonders  how  much  longer  he  '11  hold  out. 

The  dog  was  moved  to  pity,  seeing  him. 
"  Come  home  with  me,  Wolf,"  quoth  he,  civilly ; 
"  Live  with  us  dogs  a  while,  and  do  as  we ; 

You  soon  will  be  as  plump  as  you  are  slim. 

"  This  life  you  wolves  lead  can't  be  very  gay. 
Snatched  joys  I  know  are  misreported  sweet ; 
And  then  when  you  don't  pay  for  what  you  eat, 

You  know  there  always  is  the  deuce  to  pay. 

66 


"  Now  we  have  marrow-bones  and  chicken-wings  —  " 
A  flame  leapt  in  the  wolf's  reviving  eye : 
"  I  'm  coming !  "     As  they  hastened,  "  By  the  by," 

He  said,  "what  must  one  do  for  all  those  things?" 

"Oh,  serve  a  little,  fawn  on  a  few  hands  — " 
The  wolf  slacked  speed  as  one  who  meets  a  check; 
And  now  he  spied  a  mark  on  the  dog's  neck. 

"  What  's  that  ?  "    "  That  ?   oh,  my  chain  !     Custom 
demands  —  " 

"  They  chain  you   up  ?  "     "  Sometimes."     The  wolf 

stood  still,  — 

The  shabby,  hungry  wolf.     "  It  cannot  be," 
He  said.     "You  know,  I  don't  mind  starving,  free, 

But  I  object,  Dog,  on  slave's  fare  to  fill." 


III. 

CERTAIN  ass,  distinguished  in  his  set 
VrFor  extra  length  of  ear  and  force  of  lung, 
At  fortune  s  hands  with  strange  preferment 

met: 

O'er   his  plain   coat   a    sumptuous  pall  was 
flung, 


And  thereon  set,  all  brave  with  various  paint. 

The  images  of  many  a  good  apostle, 
Pale  martyr,  pious  maiden,  haloed  saint. 

Seeing  his  common  step  must  make  them  jostle 

In  a  way  ("mong  saints !)  quite  without  precedent, 
'T  was  fit  he  practised  majesty  of  gait; 

So  with  his  burden  through  the  streets  he  went 
With  pace  severe  indeed,  and  moderate. 

And  at  his  passing,  —  lo  !     "  What  novel  freak 

Possesses,"  thought  this  ass,  "  the  mind  of  man  ? 
He  bowed  to  me  before  not  once  a  week, 
And  now  he  bows  and  scrapes  whene'er  he  can.'' 


68 


He  was  not  long  accounting  for  the  change, 
However,  having  once  begun  to  try; 

For  in  himself  full  many  a  virtue  strange 
Became  apparent  to  his  sharpened  eye. 

He  smiled  a  slow,  becoming,  flattered  smile  : 
"At  last  I  am  beginning  to  be  prized; 

My  merits,  charms,  and  gifts,  ignored  erewhile, 
I  thank  my  stars,  of   late  are  recognized." 

So  passed  he,  pompous,  through  the  reverent  crowd  ; 

And  when  his  pent-up  joy  at  last  found  way 
In  strains  of  exultation  long  and  loud, 

The  mild  saints  smiled  a  little,  I  dare  say. 


69 


HAT  was  my  rag-doll,  long  ago. 
Poor  little  strange  rag-dear! 
Her  eyes  were  beads,  her  hair 

was  tow, 
Her  outlines  slightly  queer. 

And  yet  upon  my  childish  heart 
All  day  I  squeezed  her  tight, 

And,  finding  it  too  hard  to  part. 
Took  her  to  bed  at  night. 

She  might  be  there  still,  on  some  shelf, 

Spending  her  good  old  age, 
In  one  tucked  frock  I  made  myself 

From  grandma's  green  barege, 

But  that  I  had  a  brother,  too, 
My  Ben  —  you  don't  know  Ben  ? 

He  's  in  the  Guards  now,  Seventh,  Blue; 
He  wore  short  jackets  then 


He  was  my  hero  and  my  king 

In  Fuzzidora's  day; 
I  'd  not  have  doubted  <z//ything 

That  he  might  choose  to  say. 

Said  he  (I  think  I  see  him  yet, 

In  boyish  corduroys, 
With  auburn  hair  that  curled  when  wet, 

The  gloriousest  of  boys), 

"  Come,  Midget,  fly  about,"  he  said, 
"And  fetch  your  rag-doll  out! 

We  '11  plant  her  in  the  cabbage-bed, 
And  so  perhaps  she  '11  sprout. 

%  "  And  then  who  knows,  instead  of  one, 
But  you  may  have  ten  dolls 

:'<•  Just  like  her,  handsomer  than  fun, 
With  fuzzy,  flaxen  polls  !  " 


I  readily  complied,  though  sore 
My  mother  heart  misgave 

To  see  my  child  thrust  head  afore 
Into  a  mouldy  grave. 

One  moment  in  the  unusual  air 
Her  decent  legs  waved  wild ; 

Ben  tucked  them  in  with  dexterous  care, 
And  on  them  sods  were  piled. 

And  now  't  was  o'er,  his  day  of  leave, 
And  back  to  school  he  went ; 

I  watered  her  both  morn  and  eve 
With  pains  most  diligent, 

Indulging  in  vast  dreams  and  proud 

Of  an  amazing  vine, 
Whose  branches  should  be  sweetly  bowed 

With  young  rag-dolls  like  mine. 


But  days  went  by,  and  nothing  grew, 
And  still  more  days  went  by, 

And  I  felt  sometimes  rather  blue, 
And  half  inclined  to  cry ; 

Till  one  day,  doubting,  yet  afraid 

At  such  disloyal  doubt, 
I  bravely  took  my  little  spade 

And  dug  my  dolly  out. 

Oh,  poor !  — oh,  altered  Fuzzidore  ! 

I  thought  my  heart  would  break ; 
I  cried  one  whole  great  week  and  more 

For  Fuzziclora's  sake. 


73 


When  Ben  came  home  for  holidays, 

He  bought  me  stick  a  doll  ! 
A  Paris  blonde,  with  boots  and  stays 

And  even  a  parasol. 

He  caught  me  up,  and  pinched  my  ear 

With  such  a  loving  touch, 
That  when  he  said,  "  D'  you  mind  much,  dear?" 

1  answered,  "  No,  —  not  much." 


74 


LES    PAPILLOTTES. 


ULALIA  sat  before  the  glass 

While  Betty  smoothed  her  hair. 
The  mirror  told  her  how  she  was 

Attractive,  young,  and  fair ; 
Curtius  was  telling  her  the  same 
In  rosy  note,  where  he  confessed  his  flame. 


She  read  with  a  satiric  eye 

Of  passion,  hope,  and  pain ; 

Then,  careless,  tossed  the  poor  note  by ; 
Then  took  it  up  again, 

And  systematically  tore, 
folded  each  strip  carefully  in  four, 


And 


Her 


And    handed   in  fine  scorn  each 

Of  rapture  to  the  maid, 
Who  wot  how  to  dispose  of  it. 

The  beauty,  disarrayed, 
Now  crept  in  bed,  blew  out  the  light, 
locks  in  pink  curl-papers  for  the  night. 


She  slept;    and  with  each  gentle  breath 

The  paper  in  her  hair 
Soft  rustled,  and,  the  story  saith, 

Repeated  to  the  air 
Whate'er  stood  on  it  fervent  thing, — 
As  if  the  lover's  self  were  whispering. 

And  through  her  dream  she  heard  it  say, 

The  twist   o'er   her   left  ear,  — 
"  I  vow  that  I  must  love  alway 
The  dearest  of  the  dear." 
And  o'er  her  forehead  spoke  a  twist, 
"  That  stolen  glove  I  ?ve  kissed  and  over-kissed." 

Said  one,  "  Thou  art  the  loveliest ; 

Thy  beauty  I  adore." 
Another,  smaller  than  the  rest. 

Sighed,  "  Love,  love,"  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  one  said,  "  Pity  my  sad  plight !  " 
So  Curtius'  passion  pleaded  all  the  night. 

Eulalia  waking  in  the  morn, 

Large-eyed,  sat  up  in  bed, 
While  vows  the  tend'rest  that  be  sworn 

Still  whispered  in  her  head; 
A  dreamy  bliss  her  soul  possessed,  — 
She  rang  for  Betty;  and  before  she  dressed. 


76 


Upon  a  subtly  perfumed  sheet, 
As  Curtius'  own,  blush-pink, 

She  penned,  with  crow-quill  small  and  neat. 
And  perfumed  crow-black  ink, 

In  flowing  hand  right  tidily, 
The  proper,  simple  message,  "  Come  at  three." 


77 


VERE    NOVO. 

[From  the  French  of  Victor  Hugo.] 

OW  smiles  the  new  day  on  the  tearful  rose ! 
Have  not  the  flowers  delightful  little  beaux! 
All    through    the    trellis   where    the    jasmine 

clings, 

Oh,  what  a  joyous  flurry  of  white  wings, 
That  come,  and  go,  return,  spread,  fold,  hang  still,  — 
Vibrating  with  a  vast,  exquisite  thrill ! 
Oh,  Spring !    I  muse  on  all  the  missives  sweet 
That  go  from  pensive  youth  to  maid  discreet,  — 
Warm  heart-throbs  written  fair  on  page  cream-laid,   £ 
Epistles  sent  from  broadcloth  to  brocade, 
Dear  lines  of  love,  sad,  tender,  trivial,  gay, 
Received  in  April,  and  destroyed  in  May.  .  .  . 
And  lo !  these  light,  white  things  that  with  the  breeze^ 
Drift  o'er  the  garden,  flutter  through  the  trees,—        V 
These  snowy  swarms  I  seem  to  recognize 
As  torn  love-letters  changed  to  butterflies ! 


'&??•?& 

sr     x- 

jj        w> 

f^k 


>X LATTER 


FANCY. 

W  "#          -T<^^)     /, 

^s;(yA    N  formerjdaysxl'^id  desire      v~i^      >&//    /     la 
v^^Oiu^^rS^A^tawny/lion,  great  and  strong,/  W^ ^  i      , 
s^-*^\Vith  eyes^of  smouldering  yellow  fire,—  (Vf'1        , 
Ana  lashing  tail  extremely  Jong, -C/, 

tN^     ^  Ar    -W    &ss    ¥  ¥ 

|)j   /A  fierce  brute,  onljynice  to  trie,  H^*^ 

/   y  But  me  adoring  with  a  mind.  »   f  /  i  \i» 

//        Of  such/unswerving  constancy  ?  /M,  y 

\\L  //&.$  I  in  man  could, never  find.   /PJf*'jfe'rj| 

Poetic  visions  filled  my  brairi;/        \| 

We  two!   he  lying  at  ray? feet,     ;\  /  / 

Held  captive  by  a  slender  chain\        \\n// 
Of  interwoven  daisies  sweet\\       \\  \ i,1 

i  r 

A  yellow  lion !   yes,  no  doubt ;/ — ,,'  •'      / 

i  '      r       / 

I  cannot  see  one  even  yet   '    •' A  ,- 

Caged,  but   I  wish  that  he  were  out^^g. 
And  mine  to  play  with,  mine  to  pet."^ 

Still,  I  confess  it,  points  there  be 

About  those  splendid  claws  and  teeth 

Make  me  reflect  how  —  possibly  — 
I  "m  better  off  without  than  with. 
79 


And  with  this  judgment  wholesomer 
I   had  as  lief  made  known  to  all 

For  household  pet  I  should  prefer 
To-day  a  different  animal. 

Fine  as  the  lion  he  should  be, 

And  rather  fierce  and  very  strpn 

Yet  always  to  be  tamed  by 

With  glance  perhaps,  perhaps 

Love  should  he  as  the  lion  should, 

But  yet  express  his  fealty 
With  language  better  understood, 

Less  barbarous  civility  ; 

An  animal  that  in  his  breast 

Tlie  lions  dauntless  neart  should  hide, 
not  be  lion  in  the  rest,— 

there  the  likeness  must  abide: 


FRANGIPANI. 


HE  closet  where  an  actress 
Orders  her  perfumed  curls, 

Each  black  tress 
Confining  with  false  pearls  ; 

Then,  sober  Nature  flouting, 
In  crystal  balm-box  dips, 

And,  pouting. 
Encrimsons  her  proud  lips. 


Across  a  chair  lie  trailing 
Queen-robes  of  tinsel  gold, 

Exhaling 
Musk  from  each  garnished  fold. 

The  tribute  roses  sicken  ; 
With  sighs  of  rose-despair 

They  thicken 
The  warm,  gas-tainted  air. 


8 1 


OOK  padded  and  brocaded, 
Whereto  the  daylight  comes 

Degraded 
Through  silken  mediums; 


From  cup  where  red  devises 
With  azure  monsters  quaint 

Arises 
Thin  smoke  of  subtle  scent. 

In  dreams  herself  half  losing, 
A  pale  great  lady  lies 

Perusing 
The  latest  verse,  "  Heart  Cries ; " 

Feels  at  the  rhymes'  recurring 
With  morbid,  sensuous  art, 

A  stirring 
Of  her  anaemic  heart : 

Longs  for  new  loves,  —  loves  stranger, 
More  full  of  mystery 
And  danger, 
And  sweet  in  due  degree, 

Than  any  life  could  show  yet : 
Then  wonders  dreamily, 
"This  poet. — 
What  may  this  poet  be  ? " 


<f®fi  w- 


•i-S*~^£&~% 


HE  bare,  unlovely  attic 
Where  on  her  bed  a  shy, 

Erratic, 
Poor  girl  lies  down  to  die. 


Enough.     He  does  not  love  her ; 
'T  is  time,  then,  that  the  grave 

Should  cover 
What  love  cared  not  to  save. 

The  air  grows  less  —  grows  warmer ; 
Against  her  lips  she  lays 

A  former 
Gift,  sweet  in  by-gone  days. 

Air  !  —  air !  —  a  vision  hovers 
Before  her  —  her  dead  rose 

Recovers 
Its  perfume  of  a  rose  — 

Ah,  sweeter  than  all  others  ! 
His  kiss  it  is,  not  death, 

So  smothers, 
So  drinks  away  her  breath. 

This  soft  weight,  hot  as  fever, 
His  mouth,  no  red  rose,  is; 

So  ever 
Hot,  heavy  was  his  kiss. 


UCH  images,  scent  subtly 
Luxurious,  stifling-sweet, 

Such  motley 
•3S> Impressions  of  sick  heat, 


Sick  hearts,  thick  air  rose-blighting, 
Thou  conjur'st  in  my  brain, 

Exciting 
And  cloying  Frangipane. 


Till  with  a  mighty  longing 
I  crave  the  mountain  where 

Are  thronging 
Clouds,  dews,  and  cold,  pure  air ; 

Great  fir-trees  wildly  shaking 
With  Aquilon's  large  mirth, 

Dawn  breaking, 
And  good  smells  of  the  earth. 


84 


[From  the  French  of  Alphonse  Daudet.] 


F  you  are  anxious  to  know  how 

We  fell  in  love  because  of  plums, 
I  '11  tell  you  very  simply  now  — 
If  you  are  anxious  to  know  how. 
Both  lords  and  ladies  will  avow 

Love  mostly  when  they  're  sleeping 

comes: 
Succinctly,  then,  I  '11  tell  you  how 

We  fell  in  love  because  of  plums. 

My  uncle  had  an  orchard  vast ; 

I  had  a  cousin,  young  and  fair ; 
'Twixt  us  no  word  of  love  had  passed. 
My  uncle  had  an  orchard  vast ; 
His  cherries  being  to  their  taste, 

A  lot  of  little  birds  came  there. 
My  uncle  had  an  orchard  vast  — 

A  cousin  I,  both  young  and  fair. 

85 


One  morning  for  a  walk  we  went 
To  the  orchard,  I  and  Marietta; 

So  bright,  so  fresh,  so  innocent, 

One  morning  for  a  walk  we  went. 

The  crickets,  all  in  high  content, 
Were  practising  an  arietta  j 

One  morning  for  a  walk  we  went 
In  the  orchard,  I  and  Marietta. 

On  every  side,  now  loud,  now  low, 

The  birds  were  singing  in  the  bowers ; 

In  flats  and  sharps,  in  la  and  do, 

On  every  side,  now  loud,  now  low. 

The  fields  were  covered  as  with  snow 
With  myriad  little  snowy  flowers ; 

On  every  side,  now  loud,  now  low, 

The  birds  were  singing  in  the  bowers. 

So  charming  in  her  dainty  frock, 

So  kind,  and  not  at  all  flirtatious, 

My  cousin  chatted  like  a  clock, — 

So  dainty  in  her  charming  frock. 

Even  as  a  feathered  shuttlecock 

She  came  and  went,  alert,  vivacious,  — 

So  charming  in  her  dainty  frock, 

Benign,  but  not  at  all  flirtatious. 


86 


Having  reached  the  orchard  wall, 

My  cousin  eyes  the  plums'  ripe  splendor; 
The  greedy  girl  wants  one  or  all, 
Having  reached  the  orchard  wall. 
She  shakes  the  tree,  and  makes  one  fall; 

It  lies  there  bloomy,  tempting,  tender. 
Having  reached  the  orchard  wall, 

My  cousin  eyes  the  plums'  ripe  splendor. 

She  picks  it  up,  and  takes  a  bite, 

Then  hands  it  me — oh,  privilege! 

My  heart  went  so  my  head  felt  light : 

She  picks  it  up,  and  takes  a  bite; 

Her  tiny  teeth,  so  fine  and  white, 

Had  made  a  little  scalloped  edge. 

She  picks  it  up,  and  takes  a  bite, 

And  bids  me  taste  —  oh,  privilege  ! 

It  was  not  much,  but  't  was  enow ; 

What  worlds  it  meant,  that  plum  alone ! 
(If  I  had  known   then  what  I  know !) 
It  was  not  much,  but  't  was  enow. 
Just  where  the  pretty  prints  did  show 

I  bit  the  plum  —  I  've  kept  the  stone. 
It  was  not  much,  but  't  was  enow ; 

How  much  it  told,  that  plum  alone ! 


TO   THE    HEADER. 

Yes,  dearest  reader,  that  is  how 

We  loved  by  reason  of  a  plum. 

Pray,  don't  misunderstand  us  now ; 

Indeed,  good  reader,  that  is  how. 

But  if  one  lifts  a  sceptic  brow, 
And  snaps  a  rude,  derisive  thumb, 

The  worse  for  him  !   for  that  is  how 
We  loved  by  reason  of  a  plum. 


HEE  will  I  sing,  crystal  half-bubble,  thee, 
Crowned  with  the  wine  through  whose  clear, 

chilly  gold 
The  silver  atoms  rise, — rise  restlessly; 
The  hand  last  night  about  thy  frail  stem  rolled 
Is  loved  by  me. 

We  sat  by  one  another.     I  could  gaze 
Unchidden  on  what  seems  to  me  most  fair : 

Her  eyes,  the  gray  of  cloudy  Sabbath  days,  — 
The  wondrous  carven  bog-wood  of  her  hair, 
Her  marble  face. 

But  not  a  kind  word  nor  a  smile  won  I 
From  her  sweet  mouth,  angelically  cold : 

Whate'er  I  said  politely  was  set  by: 
"  Man's  old,  dull  tale,  to  every  woman  told,  — 
The  usual  lie." 


So  fared  we  through  the  entries  and  the  roast. 
I  half  heard,  through  a  haze  of  dull  despair, 

The  guests' light  laugh,  the  stories  of  our  host; 
Half  saw  the  lights,  the  flowers,  the  shoulders  bare, - 
All  seemed  pains  lost. 


90 


But  now  the  napkined  bottle !     Soft  and  slow 
Into  thee,  shallow  glass,  poured  the  adept. 

Indiff rent  I  looked  on :    I  could  not  know 
How  in  thy  gleaming  depths  the  kind  word  slept, 
The  smile  also. 


She  raised  thee  to  her  lips,  serenely  drained, 
Talked  of  the  flower-show  still  a  little  while; 

The  pure  blood  then  her  pure  cheek  purely  stained; 
Kindly  she  spoke  to  me,  gave  me  a  smile, 
Frank,  ssveet,  unfeigned. 


I  thank  thee,  crystal  thing,  — thank  thee  again  ! 
T  was  thine  with  magic  glow  to  melt  the  ice 

Thin  as  the  frost  upon  a  window-pane, 
And  let  through  cold  convention,  custom  nice, 
Her  heart  be  plain. 


s 


\ 


THE    DANCING-MASTER'S    FAREWELL. 


HE  honored  lady,  Madam  Strictenstern, 
Directress  of  this  noble  seminary, 
Has  signified  in  terms  succinct  —  oh,  very  — 
Your  dance-steps  need  no  more  be  my  concern. 
The  reason  for  this  sudden,  sharp  suppressing 
That  innocent  diversion  from  your  books, 

Is — I  feel  some  embarrassment  expressing 
My  meaning  —  is  —  young  ladies  —  my  good  looks. 

"When  putting  on  my  pumps  one  hour  gone  by 

To  seek  this  field  of  honorable  action, 

I  little  thought  they  could  be  a  detraction, 
My  faultless  nose,  my  large  and  languid  eye ! 

But  criticising  aught  would  ill  befit  me 
That  Madame  urged,  and  —  yes,  I   understand  !  — 

And  so  am  come  to  kiss  —  if  you  '11  permit  me  — 
The  seminary's  —  figurative  —  hand. 


"  No  more  now  in  the  mazes  of  the  valse 

May  we  meet,  nor  across  the  lively  Lancers ; 

No  more  may  I  advise  my  docile  dancers 
With,  '  This  is  doubtful  art,'  '  That  fas  is  false.' 

But  something  whispers  to  an  injured  feeling 
The  memory  of  me  shall  live  on  yet 

(And  precious  is  the  thought,  and  full  of  healing) 
In  each  hereafter  perfect  pirouette ! 


"  But  even  now  stands  one  upon  the  stair 
Who   in   my  place  —  for  the  same  mod 
erate  stipend  — 
Will    guide    your    footsteps,    and    whose 

judgment  ripened 
Is  well  attested  by  his  thinning  hair; 

Whilst     I  —  far,    far    away    (what    grief 

within  stirs  ! 
Miss  Blanche,  Miss  Rose,  I  beg  you  will  not 

cry!) 

Shall  teach  to  unimpressionable  spinsters 
The  minuet  —  Mesdemoiselles  —  good-by ! " 


93 


FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


THE   COURT    FOOL. 

HE  King  and  many  a  jovial  lord 
Sat  gathered  round  the  festive  board, 
While  Snuff,  the  court  fool,  scatter-brained, 
Their  excellencies  entertained. 

At  his  swift  sallies,  pranks,  and  quips, 
Broad    laughter    strained    their    easeful 

lips; 
But  one  guest  sat  in  study  brown. 

With  dull,  grave  eyes  still  looking 
down. 


"  Now,  prithee,"   quoth  Sir  Silver- 

scarf 
Unto    the    King,    "  what    ails    that 

dwarf  ? 

When  we  with  mirth  are  overcome, 
Why  doth  he  sit  so  stiff  and  glum  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  point."  replied  the  King, 
"That  is  my  other  jester,  Sting; 
And  this   is  his  half-holiday 
He  may  enjoy  in  his  own  way." 


94 


THE  EAGLE  AND  THE  RHINOCEROS. 

HE  eagle  said  to  the  rhinoceros, 

Whom,  foraging  one  day,  he  chanced  to  cross, 
"  Indeed,  thou  art  a  despicable  beast! 
Of  poesy  in  thee  is  not  the  least ; 
Whilst  I,  who  fix  the  sun  with  fearless  sight,  —     ^ 
What  poet  envies  not  me  my  bold  flight  ? " 

Then  the  rhinoceros,  in  placid 

tone, 
Spoke  :    "  Poets  envy  not  thee, 

bird,  alone  ; 

/• . 

When  his  bold  flights  as  conse-^/ 

quences  bring 

Full  many  a  pointed,  free,  unpleasant  thing 
From  critics,  in  his  galled,  writhing  pride, 
What  poet  envies  not  me  my  thick  hide  ? " 


95 


«wfy 


HIS  young  lamb  was  not  in  the  least 

The  lamb  they  represent ; 
He  was  a  wicked  little  beast, 
Not  mild  nor  innocent. 


When  his  grieved  dam  with  long  appeals 
His  conscience  would  assail, 

He  would  kick  up  his  naughty  heels, 
And  shake  his  woolly  tail. 

And  if  he  found  some  toothsome  weed 
Such  as  the  flock  love  best, 

He  would  eat  thrice  what  he  did  need 
To  keep  it  from  the  rest. 

When  Mary  her  white  pet  would  call, 
Demurely  he  'd  draw  nigh,  — 

Then  butt  her,  just  to  see  her  fall, 
And  smile  to  hear  her  cry. 


But  if  she  chanced  with  bread  and  jam 

To  pass  him  schoolward  bent, 
This  undeserving  little  lamb 

Would  go  where'er  she  went. 

Against  her  side  —  a  scurvy  trick  !  — 

He  'd  rub  his  woolly  head, 
And  as  she  stroked  it  he  would  lick 

The  jam  from  off  her  bread. 

Till,  having  heard  once  how  his  kind    | 
Are  dinner-table  stuff,  j  (/: 

He  gave  his  undivided  mind  \ff 

To  growing  lean  and  tough.       A 

'in  I    '(  ' 

<r 


97 


j    CRIAISOX-KIRTLED  maiden, 

With  braided  flaxen  hair. 
Stands  in  her  little  doorway 
Whenever  it  is  fair. 


2^, 


Whenever  it  is 

pretty  lad  in  blue 
Comes  to  his  little  threshold, 
As  if  to  note  the  view. 

Whenever  it  is  rainy, 

She  hastes  with  curious  care 
To  hide  herself,  —  as  he  does 

Whenever  it  is  fair. 


upon  the  sunlight 

With  melancholy  eyes, 
And  thinks,  "  If  there  were  some  one 

About  my  style  and  size 
With  whom  I  could  at  all  times 

Entirely  sympathize !  " 


98 


•o 0 

^    ii  ^^     Q 


And  with  an  apprehension 
Her  timid  pulses  stir 

Of  just  such  a  fine  springal 
As  lives  next  door  to  her. 


He  watches  the  dull  raindrops 
Drenching  the  misty  land ; 

Hjs  soul  sighs  for  another 
Soul,  similarly  planned, 

That  might  from  its  own  yearnings 
His  yearnings  understand. 


And  his  lone  spirit  wanders 
'Mid  fancies  soft  and  dim 

Of  just  such  a  young  person 
As  lives  next  door  to  him. 

So  near  that  if  they  listened 

Each  might  hear  the  other  sigh  ; 

So  near  they  might  touch  fingers 
If  they  knew  but  to  try,  — 

If  they  might  meet,  what  rapture  !     £ 

But  it  can  never  be  . 
It  shines  —  and  he  retires; 

It  rains  —  and  in  goes  she. 


99 


FOR  THE  SAFETY  OF  THE  PUBLIC. 


[Caldwell  pinxit] 

M  finks  vat  I  'm  a  drangerous  droggie  ; 

Well,  ven,  perhaps  I  be. 
Um  's  fixded  wiv  big  strap  and  bucknell 
My  daddy's  muzzle  on  me. 

Perhaps  it  's  best ;   for  I  'm  a  fierce  un. 

I  got  big  toofs  just  come; 
And  when  um  pulls  my  welvet  earses, 

I  twist,  —  and  bite  um  fum. 


Miss  Dolly  come  into  my  kennel, 
And  kiss  me  half  to  defs ; 
She  crush  me  to  her  girl-face,  laughing, 
To  'mell  my  puppy  brefs. 

She  call  me  ''lamb,"  and  "fweetness  doggums," 
"  Dear  man,"  and  "  angel  beast ;  " 

She  cratch  my  turn,  which  do  seem  daring,  — 
Or  rather  free,  at  least. 


For  I  'm  a  big,  blug-fusty  droggie ; 

Um  's  had  to  muzzle  me  up  ; 
Um  only  take  vis  muzzle  off  me 

When  time  am  milks  to  sup. 

But  I  do  wish,  now  no  one  looking, 

Yet  help  am  wivin  hail, 
I  might  get  black  nose  out  of  muzzle, 

I  wants  to  play  wiv  tail. 


FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 

HERE  is  a  garden  in  mid-city, 

With  rounds  and  squares  of  green; 
When  May  days  make    it  almost  pretty, 
There,  punctual  as  a  church  committee, 
The  nursery  maids  convene. 


Comes  dusk  Aunt  Dinah  with  the  baby, 

Soft  thing  of  fluff  and  lace; 
Comes  Mammy  Prissy,  proud  as  may  be 
When  "frien's  call  her  chile  mon'sous  hebby 

For  nine  monfs,  'lebben  days." 


Wheeling  the  twins,  there  7s  Mademoiselle, 

In  a  French  fluttering  cap ; 
There  's  Biddy,  with  the  child  who  fell, 
And  since  that  day  is  never  well, 

Safe  on  her  kind,  broad  lap. 

And  there 's  the  young  thing  "  Rosy  "  named, 
Who  cries  to  charge  aged  two, 

The  sturdy  villain  unreclaimed, 

Who  scorns  to  mind,  "Ain't  you  ashamed, 
A  great  big  boy  like  you  .'  " 


And  budding  swarms  with  flowin 

In  little  kilts  and  vests, 
In  tiny  frocks  and  leading-strings, 
That  toddle  'mid  the  budding  tilings, 
And  make  a  noise  like  nests. 

To  my  green  settle  I   repair, 

And  watch  the  tender  train. 
I  hear  one,  —  -'What  's  he  doing  there, 
The  old  gray  fellow  with  the  stare, 
Sucking  his  gold-topped  cane?" 


Nay  —  nothing.     Nay,  —  proceed,  my  dear, 

With  rosy  play  and  strife,  — 
A  poet's  words  ring  in  my  ear : 
Oh,  spring,  spring,  youth-tide  of  the  year ! 
Oh,  youth,  spring-tide  of  life  1 


104 


lived  a  giant;    and  he  was  so  big 
had  there  been  upon  his  forehead  fair 
mole,  and  on  that  mole  a  hair,  that  hair 
Would  have  appeared  a  twig. 
The  rest  in  due  proportion  ;    but  his  mind 
(By  thoughtful  disposition  of  the  gods, 

Who  saw  how  man  had  been 
at  fearful  odds 

Else  with    one   of   his 
kind) 

Was  not  more  than  the  man's 
whom  with  his  thumb 

He  might,  if  he  felt  vicious, 
lightly  slay, 


And  had  as  much  room  in  his  skull  as,  say, 

A  pea  has  in  a  drum. 

He  was  a  great,  good-natured,  blundering  fellow, 
Who  ne'er  had  spent  a  long  breath  in  a  sigh  — 
Until  one  day  there  came  a  butterfly, 

All  dusty  brown  and  yellow. 

It  flashed  about  his  heavy,  wondering  eyes: 
He  held  his  hand  out  for  the  winged  treasure. 
It  lit  there,  debonnair,  pleased  with  his  pleasure 

In  all  its  pretty  dyes, 

One  second,  but  ere  the  other  hand  was  ready, 
Flew  with  a  flutter  like  malicious  laughter 
Beyond  his  grasp ;    and,  sighing,  he  gazed  after 

The  saucy  little  lady. 

Then  she  returned ;    evading  his  strong  hand. 

Wheeled  all  about  his  mild,  gigantic  head, 

And  with  a  small,  soft  wing,  just  touched  with  red, 

His  fond  lip  faintly  fanned. 
She  brushed  his  gnarled,  massy  locks  for  him. 
She  settled  for  an  instant  on  his  nose, 
Then  in  the  sunny  air  so  high  arose 

His  straining  eyes  grew  dim. 

"  Here ! "  cried  the  giant,  stamping  in  a  pet, 
"Come  here,  you  little  gauzy  thing,  I  say! 
I  am  a  giant,  I  must  have  my  way,  — 
None  dared  defy  me  yet." 

1 06 


The  butterfly  looked  down  on  the  great  lout, 
And-   in  a  playful  mood,  we  must  suppose  — 
Placed  one  slight  thumb  against  her  little  nose, 
And  spread  her  fingers  out. 

Unwary  fly !   for,  in  her  rage  to  tease, 

See  how  she  comes  too  near  him  she  would  flout, 

Who,  blind  with  baffled  longing,  stretches  out 

Rough  fingers,  mad  to  seize 
That  painted  dust,  so  frail,  yet  so  defiant  — 

Upon  his  hand  some  faint  gold  atoms  lie  — 
And  where  is  it,  the  golden  butterfly  ? 

And  where,  too,  —  is  the  giant? 


107 


TO    MY    OLD    WATCH. 

[From  the  Italian  of  D.  Gnoli.] 

N  vain,  old  friend,   I   take  you  up   and   shake, 

and  try  to  mend. 
||£]     In   vain    I    hold    you    to   my   ear.      No   use ! 

you  Ve  stopped,  old  friend. 

Unto  a  very  thankless  lord  your  services  were  lent : 
You  measured  Time,  —  and  he    your  life,  with    ruthless 

measurement. 
Your  doctor  told  me  so  :    "  He  's  broken  down,  his  teeth 

are  bad; 

Against  the  fell  effect  of  years  no  help  is  to  be  had." 
Now  many  a  day,  you  know,  old   man,  a  random  race 

you  Ve  run, 

Confounding  dusk  and  dawn,  ignoring  laws  of  star  and 
sun; 

108 


But    I    bore  with   your  age,  and   e'en   no   serious   fault 

would  find 
When   you   stood   still   for   several    hours,  as    if  to  get 

your  wind. 
Through  you,  I  Ve  got  there  early  in  a  hot,  dishevelled 

state, — 
"  No  matter,"    have    I   said ;    "  here  ?s  a  Havanna  while 

I  wait." 
Through  you,  I  Ve  got  there  late ;  and  though  reproaches 

were  not  few, 

I  've  lowered  my  devoted  head — and  laid  no  blame  on  you. 
Through  you,  the  whistle  of  the  fast-receding  train  I  Ve 

heard ; 
On  which  occasions,  you  will    own,  I  Ve   scarcely   said 

a  word. 
Now  Time  has  slain    you,  -   Time,  your  master ;    Time, 

our  common  foe ; 
Old  Time,  who  lives  upon  the  dead,  —  a  dreary  carrion 

crow ! 

Within  a  certain   casket's    shade,  gloom    perfumed   and 

discreet, 

Have  I  a  little  burial-ground  of  trifles  dear  and  sweet; 
A  broken  plaything,  letters,  bits  of  ribbon,  too,  are  there, 
And  dark  remains  of  faded  flowers,  and  fading  locks  of 

hair. 
There  shall   you  rest,  old  friend ;    and  when    I    lift   the 

casket's  lid, 

I  shall  imagine  that  I   hear  you  tick  as  once  you  did, 
Enlivening  the  lonesome,  studious  watches  of  the  night, 

109 


Lightsome    and   young,  against  a   heart  then   young  as 

well,  and  light. 
And   you   shall  wake   that  still  world  with  your  former 

clear  tick-tack  : 
Up,  up,  you  dead,  for  I  Ve  made  the  complacent  years 

turn  back ! 
I  mark  the  hours  of  happy  days  that  some  had  fancied 

dead. 

Return,  O  dusky  ring,  to  wave  upon  its  lovely  head ! 
Once  more,  O  blackening  rose,  be  red  within  a  garden 

gay! 

O  broken  toy,  be  whole !   a  little  child  desires  to  play. 
Nay,  Time   has  slain  you,  —  Time,  your  master;   Time, 

our  common  foe, 
Who  feeds  upon  the  dead,  —  a  dreary,  darkling,  carrion 

crow  ! 
But  let   no  jealous  grudge    toward   the   new  heir   your 

slumbers  break; 
Already  do  1  hate  the  stranger  watch  your  place   shall 

take. 
You  told  the  blissful  morning  hours  of  youth  and  love 

and  hope ; 
And  ha  must  count  the  heavy  steps  adown    the   sunset 

slope. 
Resigned,  lie  in  your  grave.      Fate  deals   alike  with  all, 

old  friend : 
And  being  born  is  just  the  first  step  leading  to  the  end. 


You  see  the  sun,  —  the  sun  up  there,  the 

moving  hand  of  gold 
By  whom  upon  the  azure  dial  the  pass 
ing  hour  is  told  ? 
He,  too,  is  growing  old.     He  '11 

totter  in  the  sky  ere  long, 
And,    doting,    get    the    days    and 
months  inextricably  wrong. 

iS&rX    Then  Time  will  frown  severely,  and 

f^^f 

^     ;      "  Enough  !  enough  !  "  he  '11  shout : 

"  This  clock  is  out  of  kilter,  these 
wheels  are  quite  worn  out ! " 
And  there  shall  be  a  noise  of 
crumbling  systems,  —  stars 
that  fall; 

And    then     the     icy 
darkness,  and  obliv 
ion  over  all. 


18012 


